Self Grief, Trauma & Story Keepers
/Do you ever think about the tiny human version of you, when you were maybe just 5 or 6, entering school and the stage of life beyond survival + play mode?
The version of you who:
Didn’t have any preconceptions about the world?
Still saw the blue sky and wondered what magic could make it turn so many colors?
Asked questions without caring what anyone thought about you for asking them?
Because I have.
I grieve for 4-year old me, who used to build forts behind her grandfather’s chair with the curtains from the sliding glass doors. I’d sit in my corner with my books and my toys while the adults sat outside the cave somewhere, obviously.
The 4-year old me who didn’t yet know that there are people who pray on little girls who trust without guarding, forgive easily and sing through their days.
The other day someone in my book club mentioned learning that as an adult, it’s not safe for her to talk about her trauma around her family.
I could totally understand because the first time I wrote a synopsis of my story — a page description for Facebook on WHY I want to change the world — my dad called me.
He was disappointed, because he said I made it sound like it was an awful childhood, like nothing good had happened.
But that’s not true. There’s always good.
For some more than others.
I started dance classes when I was four & danced for the next ten years. I remember:
The magic of Friday night classes & performing on stage at the end of each season
Shopping at Kmart with my mom and the ULTIMATE luxury —
McDonalds (French fries AND a toy?!)
I also remember the bullying. The abuse. The violence. Being disowned at 13.
It’s not either/or. It’s and/both.
I had elements of a happy, middle class, suburban American childhood.
And also experienced long-term, life-altering trauma.
So today my letter is to 4-year old me, before I grew up overnight:
Hey little one. Sweet moonchild.
The world is going to get very confusing soon, and there will be people who treat you as less than the glorious miracle you are.
People will try to silence you. To take your voice just like Ariel and tell you to stop singing.
To stop shining.
And even though you’ll learn how to perform, how to hide your pain, how to dim your light until it’s so small you’ll hardly need an invisibility cloak…
Keep shining.
Because you’re going to make people laugh one day. You’re going to help them smile—you already do.
The way you SEE people, truly see their heart, will make a lot of people uncomfortable for the next 30 years or so.
And also, for those who are willing, you being irrevocably YOU will help them to feel seen themselves.
Even when you swear to stop talking, to stop asking questions, to stop singing—making yourself small and quiet will never fully stop the pain.
So one day, little one, you’re going to take everything you’ve learned, everything you’ve seen and experienced and heard from the stories of others and shine a light for the world.
You are a story keeper.
Be patient. I know how hard that is — wanting to see the next right step, wanting to already BE in a happy place.